I'm sorry! he scrawled quickly.
Jendara felt stricken. "No, sweetie, I'm not upset with you. I'm just upset that you had to hear it like that."
Those things are monsters, he wrote. I wish I could go fight them.
"I'm glad you're not," she said, pulling him half-off his chair so she could give him a real, full hug. "These things—I couldn't take it if they got their hands on you. Because you're right, Kran. They are monsters."
A knock at the door cut off any reply he might have made. Jendara sighed. She didn't want to be interrupted right now, not for anything.
She threw open the door and stared at the old woman on her stoop. "Gerda."
The Alstone wisewoman slipped past her. "I brought you this," she said, waving a small ceramic crock. "Ointment, for those wounds."
"Thank you," Jendara said. She tried not to tense as Gerda strode into her house, like some sort of military commander on inspection. After all, the old woman had supported her during the meeting. "And thank you for saying what you did at the meetinghouse."
Gerda snorted. "Only a fool ignores the truth when it's right under her nose." She gave Jendara a pointed look, then put her hand on her hip and looked around the cottage. She made a disapproving sniff.
Jendara put her own hands on her hips. "I see. Well, the ointment is very generous, but I'm fine."
Gerda raised an eyebrow. "You're sure of that, are you?" She took a few steps closer to Jendara, peering at the claw marks on her face. "Those wounds look puffy to me. Like they're fighting an infection."
Jendara resisted the urge to touch the scratch marks. "They're fine. They were cleaned well."
"You know," Gerda said, leaning against the kitchen counter, "I've been talking to some of the other fisherfolk. Your crew, too. And you know what they've all mentioned?"
Jendara pressed her lips tight and didn't answer.
"Seeing crows on the attackers' boats. One, two, as many as a dozen. But no one else has been bothered by them. Funny, isn't that?"
"What are you implying?"
Gerda placed the crock on the counter. "I'm not implying anything. But these are all good people. People who are active in their communities. People who are loyal to their clans."
A muscle clenched in Jendara's jaw. She waved at the open door. "Thank you for the ointment, Gerda."
Gerda inclined her head. "You're very welcome." She gave the cottage a last evaluating look. "You know," she said, "I don't see a clan altar in here. Maybe you should change that." She smiled as she brushed past Jendara.
Jendara slammed the door behind the old woman and gave it a kick for good measure. She didn't believe clan spirits were any kind of protection against crows set on attacking a person.
She snatched up the ceramic crock, ready to toss it in the fireplace, then stopped.
Clan spirits might not be any kind of protection against crows set on attacking a person, but hers was the only ship the crows had attacked. Why was that? Why, of all the people who had seen them, had those crows decided to attack her?
She put the crock down on the table, next to the leather pouch she planned to fill with provisions. Absently, she cut off a slice of the bread Kran had set out. Fifteen years ago, she would have offered that piece to the ancestor spirits. A part of her wondered if she should listen to Gerda and put out an offering, but common sense stuffed the slice into her mouth. There was no point worrying about crows or spirits. She had a mission to lead.
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Eleven
Chum
By late afternoon, the rest of the scouting vessels had split off from main flotilla, and Jendara was steering north, skirting the edges of the fishing grounds. This stretch of the seas on the outermost rim of the Ironbound Archipelago extended north and west of Flintyreach to flank the island of Dragon's Rib. The deceptively smooth waters lay over a collection of reefs and rocks that made the area a killing ground for big sailing vessels. Even Hazan's little sailboat had too deep a keel for the central waters. Most fishing boats simply anchored on the edge.
Out here, they should be safe, but to the west, a few tiny islands nosed up—and where there were islands, there were often offshore rocks. Jendara kept a close eye on the water. She shrugged off her sweater. With only a light breeze, the summer sun felt good on her skin. It was hard to believe winter was just weeks away. But that was life in the islands, she thought. Sunshine one day, snowstorm the next.
From the bow, Hazan coughed.
"You all right?" she asked. He hadn't complained all day, but it was hard to tell how he was feeling. He'd looked pale, so she had sent him forward to rest.
"Just fine. Keeping my eyes skinned. I don't like these waters." He spat overboard. "Sailed around here quite a bit while I was looking for my homestead site. There are a handful of islands out here. Just rocks, really. Mine's the biggest."
"How big?" She adjusted the rudder. There was something up ahead, maybe rocks, maybe debris. She didn't want to hit it.
"Big enough for a house, grass enough for a couple of goats. I don't need much. Mostly, I fish. In the summers, I go to Flintyreach with a crew and hunt trolls for bounty." He pointed ahead. "There's something on the water."
"I see it." She swung the vessel around so they'd ease up beside the debris. "You come back here and take the rudder."
She tugged the gaff hook out from under the seat and squeezed aside so Hazan could settle into place. She perched on the edge of the foredeck to sweep at the water, hooked a clump of something and pulled it closer. A bunch of rope. She frowned.
The tentacle snaked around her arm before she even saw it. She hissed as the suckers bit into her bare skin.
Forgetting everything she knew about squid, she tried to yank her arm free. The tentacle wriggled tighter. Blood streamed down her arm. The gaff hook slipped out of her fingers.
She twisted so her free hand could reach her sword. The thing tugged harder. Her boots scrabbled in the bottom of the boat for purchase. It was going to pull her overboard.
The sword caught in its scabbard.
"Hazan!"
"I'm coming!"
She gave up on the sword and clawed at her belt knife. Freed it. The tentacle wriggled higher up her arm, working up to her body. She couldn't let it pull her overboard. She drove the knife into the flesh of the tentacle.
Water exploded around her. The head of the squid shot up, its massive eyes angry black orbs. A pair of tentacles whirled over her head.
She stabbed the knife down again and sawed at the flesh. With a burst of pain, the tentacle popped free. Jendara flew backward, tumbling into the bottom of the boat.
At the bow, Hazan pummeled a tentacle with an oar. Jendara scrambled forward, ignoring the burning in her arm and the blood trickling down her wrist. She wasn't sure she could use her sword arm; the muscles felt crushed. She pawed at her sword, freeing it from the scabbard, then drew it left-handed.
Something snarled. She ignored it, swinging the blade around and chopping off the nearest tentacle. Hazan dropped to his knees to get out of her way. The backs of her hands lit up with the hot, cruel hunger of the pirate goddess.
The sword flashed in Jendara's hand, catching the sun. The light struck the squid in its big black eye, and the creature shook its head, making waves that rocked the ship. A big one, Jendara thought, and grinned. She dropped into a crouch, ready to plunge the sword into the beast's mantle.
The squid pulled back, shielding its face with one of its remaining tentacles. Clearly afraid of her.
The squid slipped beneath the water. The snarling died, and Jendara realized she was the one who'd been making the horrible sound.
She peered over the gunwale, watching the creature swim into the deeps. Blue stained the foam on the waves. The creature was bleeding badly. Any sharks in the area would flock to it. Her hands felt suddenly cool.
"By Erastil, you're bleeding like a stuck pig!" Hazan
hurried back to the little storage locker and returned with a roll of bandages. "They've got teeth in their suckers, you know. It chewed some good holes in your arm."
The fading effects of adrenaline made her chatty. "We ate a lot of squid, growing up. Fishermen would hire my father to clear out the waters before the spring salmon runs. He had sucker scars up and down his arms, and a big patch across his chest."
Hazan tied off the bandage covering her forearm, and she winced. "That's tight."
"It needs to be. Spray off of the water makes the bandage wet, it loosens up."
"I never thought about that." She rubbed at the bandage. It looked neater than she would have tied it.
"Your father's not the only one who's made ends meet hunting squid." He sat back in the bottom of the boat, rubbing his injured side. "It's good money."
"It's hard earning a living when you don't have your own land, isn't it?"
He rubbed his arm absently. "Glad I finally got my own stake."
She frowned. "Did you hurt your arm?" She reached out for him.
He pulled the limb away. "Just an old scrape. Scab must be catching on the fabric of my shirt."
For the first time, she realized he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, a heavy sheepskin jerkin over the top. In this sun, he must be cooking. But he didn't look uncomfortable. She wondered if he was running a fever. Chills were often the first sign of infection. "You feeling okay?"
He rolled his eyes. "Fine. Now, how about you finish pulling in that flotsam and see if it gives us any clues?"
"Sure."
She'd lost the gaff hook, but the flotsam had drifted up against the side of their boat. She grabbed a handful of the rope and hauled it in. A chunk of wood had tangled in its knots, and Jendara reached out for it.
Hazan grunted. "That look like the side of a boat to you?"
She poked at the white-painted wood, the broken curve of one side, and nodded. "If I had to guess, I'd say this was part of an oar port."
"Any of the other boats in our group running under oar power?"
Jendara thought a moment. "There's one other faering. Might have switched to oars out here around the rocks."
Hazan straightened up. "I see smoke."
Jendara snapped her head to follow his pointing finger. North and east of their current bearing, away from the little islands, black smoke stained the sky. She brought out her spyglass, hoping to make out the source. "Smoke's too thick to see through."
"Let's get going, then." He hurried back to his post at the tiller.
Jendara was already moving, adjusting the rigging for full speed. The light breeze filled the sails and the faering shot forward. Jendara couldn't help smiling at the sailboat's response. She was a fine little craft.
As they grew close, they had to slow. The smoke billowed toward them, graying out the sun. Jendara fumbled for her handkerchief and bound it around her face. Up ahead, the smoke looked even heavier and blacker.
The boat crept forward. The slap of the waves against its hull sounded very loud, but other sounds were muffled—just as they'd been in that fog off Crow's Nest. She squinted into the gloom.
Someplace up ahead, a crow called. Jendara's lips tightened at the sound.
"Movement off the port bow!"
Jendara turned in the direction Hazan called, but it was too late—something pale flashed and she recognized the figurehead of a longship all at the same time. And then the figurehead smashed into the side of Hazan's boat and Jendara flew through the air, hitting the water hard.
The handkerchief slid up, clinging to her nostrils and lips, blocking out air. She clawed at it, but the knot caught in her hair. She realized she was sinking.
She kicked hard and came back up into the air, darker than ever now. She spluttered for breath.
"Hazan!"
He didn't answer. Jendara felt the water dragging her back down.
There came the feeling of something twisting in her hair, and then the unsettling sensation of rising upward even as her scalp burned.
Something crashed on her head and the darkness became absolute.
∗ ∗ ∗
She awakened to pain. Her head spun, even though her cheek ground against a flat slab of cold stone, and her sucker-torn arm burned as if someone had rubbed salt into the wounds. She remembered falling into the sea.
What had happened to Hazan? She tried to remember. A longship had appeared in the smoke and rammed Hazan's boat. She had fallen overboard.
Her head swirled and she heaved up her lunch, the mess catching in her bunched-up scarf and puddling under her cheek. She managed to turn her head a little to keep from inhaling the stuff.
A cold claw ran down her leg. "She's awake," someone murmured.
She wished she could see the rest of the man. The bear skin covering his hands and arms was thick and brown—grizzly hair. It was all too easy to envision some massive bear crouched over her, its claws poised to slice her open.
"Stop groping her. She needs to be alive for the ceremony," another voice whispered.
"I won't kill her."
"The ceremony's almost started. We don't want to keep the Crow Witch waiting." There was nervousness in the second man's voice.
Someone grabbed Jendara by the arms. Her damaged arm shrieked with pain, but she cut off her cry. Her vomit ran down her neck, stinging her skin. The man jerked her upright, sending her head into chaos. She heaved again, and her legs went out from under her.
Grunting, he dragged her by the wrists bound behind her, her tightly tied feet and ankles scraping on stones. She could hear other voices now, low chanting and drums. Another set of hands closed on her arms, and she rose up in the air. Rough wood scraped her skin, and then her weight settled on the bindings between her hands.
She couldn't stop the scream as her shoulders popped out of their sockets.
She sucked in air and choked on it. Coughing jarred her shoulders, made it worse. She was crying now, sobbing like she hadn't since she broke her arm at age seven. This was pain, real pain, and she couldn't steady her head long enough to get ahold of it.
Beside her, someone else moaned. Her heart sank. Was it Hazan?
She could still move her head, although she didn't want to. But she needed to know if she was on her own.
A man hung from his bound wrists beside her, but he wasn't Hazan. Only an arm's-length away, it was too easy to see the abuse the stranger taken. The ruddy firelight flickered on the flayed flesh of his face. Something huge and vicious had clawed at it, ripping off strips of skin and slicing through muscle and fat. Yellow goo clotted with blood shone where once there had been an eye. Her stomach twisted again, from rage now instead of her concussion.
Her head still pounded and spun, but she could think around the pain in her skull and shoulders. She managed her first deep breath since she'd regained consciousness and took a good look around herself. While she'd been knocked out, the afternoon had passed by, and now only a faint lavender clung to the edge of the sky. She and her captors were gathered on a beach, facing a vast and empty sea. Not even rocks interrupted its stretch. No ships moved on that dark immensity.
The beach, however, was full of people. She tried to count and gave up, estimating sixty to a hundred people bunched together in front of her. There could have easily been more on the periphery of the gathering. Her night vision was ruined by the enormous bonfire burning a few yards away. She could feel its heat even where she hung.
She wriggled her feet. They were bound tight, but her legs had some movement. She bent her knees until her feet pressed against the stake, taking some of the weight off her aching arms. The pain receded further into the back of her mind. She couldn't feel her hands—they were so tightly bound they'd gone numb—but she knew her tattoos were heating up.
And then the drumming changed.
It had been soft, regular tapping that complemented the chanting. Now something had cued it to change, to roar, to crash. Jendara could feel the beat thudding insid
e her, deep within the very chambers of her heart.
The crowd parted for a woman. She stood in the gap they created, making no effort to move, simply holding the crowd's attention. Jendara couldn't look away from her.
The pale fabric of her gown clung to her form, sketching her lean shape like a chalk drawing on dark paper. The night receded around her. Her skin gleamed, as pale and polished as an alabaster lamp, and strands of nearly white hair twisted around her shoulders and waist. It made the contrast of her headdress more astonishing.
The black headdress glistened with an oily shimmer. It stretched wider than the woman's shoulders and dipped low over her eyes. Crow feathers and whole wings sprang up from an armature of wire and tiny bird bones that tapered down to grip the woman's head. Within the armature, something moved, and Jendara caught a glimpse of a gleaming eye. The imprisoned crow cawed softly, and the crowd cheered.
The woman stepped forward. People dropped to their knees as she passed. This had to be the witch her captor had mentioned.
She looked away from the eerie figure, studying the kneeling people. Most wore cloaks or robes of animal hides that still bore their heads and paws. Jendara saw bear hides and wolf hides, a coyote, even a woman wearing a wolverine headdress with a fur skirt—and nothing else. The air stank of meat and rancid flesh. Jendara could smell it even above her own sour vomit.
A man knelt before the Crow Witch, offering up a long knife. Its tapered blade winked in the firelight. The woman accepted it, then raised it to the sky. The last of the sunset had faded, but only a few stars broke the black expanse of night. Jendara had the sudden certainty that the witch was welcoming that blackness into the wicked knife. She braced her legs, ready to push herself free of the post she'd been hung upon. The odds of running into the forest and actually getting away were slim, but not half as slim as surviving that knife.
But instead the Crow Witch turned to the whimpering man. She stepped close to him and seized his jaw. Jendara stared in sick fascination. The woman had tipped her fingers with the white claws of a cougar. They dug into the man's skin. The man began to cry.
Pathfinder Tales: Skinwalkers Page 13
